


Hugs Can Heal Even the Deepest Wounds

by Supdudes95



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Fluff, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John Needs A Hug, John has a bad week, M/M, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 12:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supdudes95/pseuds/Supdudes95
Summary: John has a terrible week. A hug would probably help...





	Hugs Can Heal Even the Deepest Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Heyyoo!   
I just really felt like writing some fluff, and this thing popped into my head.   
Please ignore any spelling mistakes. English isn't my first language, and it's two in the morning, so have fun with this one.

John’s week had been one of the worst weeks of his life. Everything had gone wrong in every single way possible, and the need for a break had him almost sobbing as he walked through the door to the flat. He’d just come home after a long day at work, and the only thing on his mind was to crash on the sofa and forget about his life for once. A nice cup of tea would be amazing, too.

He let his suitcase hit the ground with a thump, dragged his feet as he walked into the kitchen and pulled the kettle out of the cupboard. A nice cuppa would make his life at least a little bit more tolerable. Thinking back to the past few days made him cringe.

Monday had started out quite well. He’d woken up, his life seemed to smile at him for once, and he thought the day would be one of the better ones. Oh, how wrong he’d been.

He’d went to work, a couple of appointments had been cancelled, and he’d had a few hours where he didn’t have much to do. That is, until he got a text from Sherlock asking him to come quickly, and that a woman was about to be murdered. John had leapt into action, always the soldier, dropped all he had and gotten to the place Sherlock had specified in record time. He’d met the detective by the Thames, who’d pointed to a woman struggling against a man before being pushed into the river. Sherlock had quickly taken up the chase on the man while John was left staring at the woman in the water.

Letting out a sigh, he stripped out of anything that would drag him down before jumping into the cold water. The freezing temperature felt numbing on his joints and skin, and he already felt like this rescue mission was going to fail miserably. He’d spotted the woman struggling against the current, clothes weighing her down and dragging her under. John kicked his legs pushing himself towards the panicking figure. He shouted at her to try to swim towards him, getting her attention, making her try her best to swim closer to him. Her panic shining in her wide eyes.

It didn’t take long to reach her. He quickly grabbed her, trying his best to keep them both above the surface. She was wearing a thick jacket and boots, and John groaned inwardly as he felt her latch onto him, pushing him further down. This was not how he was going to die.

He started to fight back, trying his best to stay calm as she continued to climb on him. Her fear clouded her judgement, and the doctor really needed to get her to calm down. His muscles started to scream as he tread the water frantically. The current swept them further down the river and John felt his own panic start to build. He needed to get the woman to relax, or at least get the weighty clothes off of her. The second option was his best bet, and he started to pull at her jacket, yelling at her to cooperate.

When all that gave him was a dunk underwater momentarily stunning him as the freezing substance washed over his head, he came up with another brilliant plan. He broke the surface and pulled his arm back, mustering his power before punching her, knocking her out cold. He got the jacket off her, relieved by the weight loss, and held her tightly while making his way back to the shore. People were watching them, running and shouting at him to get closer to the shore. He growled under his breath, trying his best to find a way to get them out of the water when he saw a small boat tied not too far away.

A couple of men stood in the boat waving at him to get closer to them. He continued to struggle until he felt strong hands lock around his forearms and pulling him and the woman onto the deck. He shivered violently, partly from the cold air and partly from the physical exertion. Why was it always John ending up with the dirty work? And the day had been so nice up until this point.

Someone wrapped him in a blanket. He heard people applauding his effort, but because of his exhaustion he felt disorientated and sick. He knew someone commented on the bruise quickly spreading over the woman’s temple, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. She was safe, and that was the important part.

Sherlock had found him sitting in the back of an ambulance, frowned and scolded him for knocking out his witness. John frankly didn’t give a damn given the situation. He only wanted to get back home, take a warm shower and crawl under the covers. Of course, none of that happened as the detective got a phone call and dragged his flatmate with him towards a new case.

John, as he got home past midnight, utterly drained, wondered if maybe the next day would be better. Wrong. It was worse.

Tuesday morning was pain. John woke up to someone dragging him out of bed and down the stairs by his legs. He hit his head on some of the steps, trying his best to protect himself the best he could. His muscles were stiff from the day before, and he had absolutely no energy left to fight. One hard pull and he hit his head hard enough to see stars. Slightly dazed, they reached the landing. Someone muttered a few instructions and he was hoisted up over someone’s shoulder. Why the hell hadn’t they done that when they first got him out of the bed?

A knock to the head and his lights went out.

He woke up later to find himself in a cellar of some sort. The room lacked any sort of windows, and the only source of light was a lightbulb swinging above his head. Nausea racked through his body, and he felt sick climbing up his throat at an alarming rate. He tried to lean forward to avoid puking all over his clothes, and discovered that his hands were bound behind his back and tied to the wall. He was on the floor then. Great. Just perfect. Not only was he sitting in his pyjamas on a cold cellar floor; he was bound to the wall and close to throwing up because of an obvious concussion.

What felt like hours went by. He drifted in and out of consciousness until someone suddenly crouched in front of him. When the hell had he gotten in there?

He glared at the man, trying his best to seem intimidating and dangerous, probably looking as tough as a hedgehog. He didn’t think about that, though. The man leaned closer, saying something John couldn’t hear through his pounding head ache and ringing in his ears. The man watched him expectantly, like he wanted an answer of some sort. John continued to glare, figuring it would look better if he just didn’t say anything instead of asking him what he’d said. Embarrassment wouldn’t be good in this situation.

A perfect hit to his stomach later had him curling in on himself, arms twisting painfully behind him. He groaned, breathing through clenched teeth, trying to push down the pain streaming through him. He waited for the next blow, but it never came. He chanced a glance up at his captor and winced as he saw the man putting on some brass knuckles. Wonderful.

Hours later, he lay bloody and bruised on the floor, spitting blood through a split lip, panting and gurgling through the agony. His kidnapper had left him for the time being, which he was grateful for.

A bang on the door made him moan as the sound reached his aching head. He squinted at the person throwing the door open and hurry inside. The black curls and the long coat fluttered as Sherlock walked over to him, quickly cutting him lose with a pocket knife and threw his arm over his shoulder before pulling him up to his feet. They were out of the room in a few seconds.

John was met by paramedics, flashing lights in the dusk and people standing about. The man from before, accompanied by another were pushed into a police car. The paramedics lead him to an ambulance and helped him inside. They kept telling him that he would be fine, and that they would help him as soon as they got to the hospital. Relief flushed through him. Finally, he’d get some rest. Maybe he’d be allowed to sleep for a few hours. Tomorrow would be a new day. He’d be in a warm hospital bed for the night, and nothing would get him out of it unless it was an emergency.

Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t allow John to sleep Wednesday morning. The detective had barged in, pulled out IV’s and other equipment before throwing some clothes at him telling him to get dressed. John, still in pain after two horrible days tried to object, but to no avail. Sherlock had already left the room.

John exhaled loudly through gritted teeth and hissed as his bruised body got out of the bed. He got the hospital gown off and reached for the clothes the detective had brought him. He stopped dead when his fingertips met soft leather. He pulled out the garment and blinked owlishly at the black, shining trousers. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing.

He frowned as he pulled them on and reached for the black tank top and ripped denim waistcoat. He looked around for any shoes, and saw a couple of spiky boots near the chair by the bed. He sighed and pulled them on, feeling ridiculous as he marched out of the hospital room and towards the waiting detective.

“What the fuck is this about, then?” he growled at Sherlock.

“Relax, John, it’s for a case. Come along, now,” the reply didn’t reassure him. Sherlock waltzed out the front doors of the building while John tried his best to be invisible as he followed him, feeling self-conscious by the tight, revealing trousers. People were staring at him as he made his way into the waiting taxi. He probably looked like a loon with wounds and bruises all over his naked skin. And that was another problem. Who in their right mind wears a tank top and waistcoat in November?

An hour later the taxi pulled over. John watched silently as Sherlock paid before turning to the place they’d arrived at. A club. Of course, it was a club. He felt a hand against his lower back gently leading him forward towards the back entrance of the building. He really didn’t like where this was going. Sherlock stopped him and ruffled his hair, giving him a few instructions before pushing him into the loud facility. Rock music blared from the speakers, people were pushing each other around and John felt completely lost in the maze of bodies. His head pounded and his concentration was wearing thin.

A sharp pain to his butt cheek made him twirl around and glare at the person that had just slapped him. The young man looked high as a kite as he pushed up against him. Before he could do anything about it, the man had dragged him towards the exit, and into the alley behind the club where Sherlock was supposed to wait. Which he wasn’t. The detective had left him, and John felt dread as the young man pushed him up against the wall, leaning in slowly as if to kiss him. John was having none of it, however, and just as a police officer rounded the corner, John’s fist connected with his jaw.

And that’s how he ended up in a small holding cell for the night. His arm covered his eyes as he lay back on the bunk. This week had been such a terrible experience, and all he wanted to do was go home and sleep for an eternity. His concussion continued to terrorise him, and he really wanted to get out of the uncomfortable clothes. He used the waistcoat as a blanket in the cool room and waited for something to happen.

The sound of a door opening made him lift his arm just enough to watch who’d entered. Greg Lestrade was frowning at him from the other side of the cell.

“Greg,” he acknowledged and let his arm fall back over his eyes to shield him from the sharp light. The detective inspector cleared his throat.

“Would you like to explain yourself, John?”

“I’d rather not. I’ve got a vicious head ache and I’m freezing,” John muttered. Greg stepped further into the room.

“Well, drinking does that to a person.”

“I’m not drunk,” John sighed.

“The officer that brought you in told another story.”

“I’m sure he did,” the doctor groaned. “I’m supposed to be in the hospital. I thought you were involved in my rescue yesterday?”

“What rescue?”

“Kidnapping. Where do you think I got all the bruises from,” John gestured to his skin with his unoccupied arm.

“And why aren’t you in the hospital?” Greg squinted suspiciously at him and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Sherlock.”

The DI nodded as if that explained everything. He seemed to be unsure what to do with himself, so he ended up giving him a pat on the arm and leaving again. He came back an hour later accompanied by a second pair of footsteps. Sherlock stopped in the doorway and rolled his eyes.

“Get up, John,” he said flatly. “I’m taking you home.”

“I’d rather go to the hospital if I’m honest,” John glanced at him, ignoring the detective’s _dull _comment before swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. He put on the waistcoat to conserve some of his warmth. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently waiting for John to get up. John met Greg’s sympathising gaze for a moment before he slouched after Sherlock out of the small cell.

They ended up at Baker Street. Sherlock hurried inside, not waiting for John to drag himself up the stairs to their flat. He went straight to bed, hoping he wouldn’t die in his sleep. Or maybe that would be better? At least he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

Everything hurt. God, he wanted to sleep. He needed sleep, but without painkillers he ended up laying awake the rest of the night. The head ache had thankfully gone away, and he guessed the concussion had mostly healed. Still, the rest of his body refused to let off on the pain for even a second, and every move he made was hell on earth.

Thursday. One more day until weekend, and then this week would finally become nothing more than a painful memory.

He drifted off, the fatigue finally getting to him, only to be woken up a few hours later by knocks on his bedroom door. He groaned and rolled out of the bed. He didn’t expect to see Mrs. Hudson standing outside his room. She looked spooked by something, and when she told him what had happened, he felt like could, and probably would, kill his flatmate for his incredible stupidity. He changed into a jumper and jeans, and grabbed his gun and a jacket on his way out. He stumbled down the stairs and out into the street, hailing a cab and rambling off his destination. He fumbled with the weapon in his jacket pocket while the taxi slowly drove through the streets of London. God, he was going to kill Sherlock when he found him.

The taxi stopped in front of an old warehouse. John held his breath for a moment before letting it out in a heavy sigh, preparing for whatever was going to meet him inside the building.

He paid the driver and snuck up to the entrance, pulling his gun and checking the magazine. He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if he could just let Sherlock stay there. He’d probably deserve it after being smart enough to get captured by the guys they had been trying to hunt down for the last two days.

John took one last look at the grey clouds that floated heavy overhead before crouching down and opening the door a few inches to peek inside. It looked deserted, but the sounds of soft voices made him sure he’d come to the right place.

He ignored his damaged body, crouch-walking in behind a few crates, careful not to be seen or heard. He sat down with his back to the crates, listening to the detective’s breathless voice. Even when in danger, he sounded so sure of himself John wanted nothing more than to punch him in those sharp cheekbones of his. Usually it was subtext, but this time he might actually do it. Might even go for a broken nose, to be honest.

A noise caught his attention. It sounded like a gun being cocked, and he knew he had less time than he thought. Sherlock had stopped talking abruptly, and he knew he had to act soon, or else he’d never get to punch the man.

He tightened his grip on his own gun and stood up, aiming and shooting a single bullet into the enemy’s neck, killing him swiftly. Sherlock started and turned to look at the ex-army doctor. John still held his gun raised, as he scanned for more people. He locked eyes with the detective and knew it wasn’t over.

A shot was fired, and a bullet pierced the skin on his gun yielding arm. He let out sharp yelp before throwing himself down behind the crates again. He surveyed the damage and breathed out in relief when he understood it wasn’t anything serious. He cursed under his breath and let his gun fall into his other hand. He watched where the bullet had hit him and tried to deduce where the shooter probably was hiding. With a grunt, he lay down on his stomach, crawling until he had a clear view of the place. He managed to spot the shooter behind a tall shelf. He aimed, thankful for all those lessons in shooting with his non-dominant hand, and pulled the trigger. The man behind the shelf fell dead to the floor.

John got up, clutching at the bullet wound in his bicep and hurried over to Sherlock, questioning if there were anyone else in the building. Sherlock shook his head quickly, staring at his flatmate in awe. John rolled his eyes at his stunned friend and tried his best to untie him with one hand. When that didn’t work, he strode over to the closest body and searched him over for a knife. He found it surprisingly fast and used it to cut the ropes restraining the detective. He didn’t bother to help Sherlock up from the chair, only continued to clutch his arm and walk briskly out of the warehouse. He could hear the detective limp after him.

He was not in the mood for this, especially when the adrenaline started to wear off. He turned around to face Sherlock, asking him to call an ambulance so he’d get the bullet out of his arm.

They waited for ten minutes before John started to feel light headed. The detective reached out for him, but he only held out a bloody hand, making him back off. He wouldn’t be able to contain his anger if Sherlock came closer. He intended to have a long, thorough talk about why the hell he wasn’t supposed to go off by himself when everything had stopped being painful.

He ended up sitting down on the pavement, shivering slightly in the cold November breeze. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care.

The ambulance pulled up a few minutes later, paramedics jumping out and helping him up. Some of them he recognised from earlier in the week. He was grateful when they didn’t comment on it. He just wanted to get the bullet out and go home. He left Sherlock outside the warehouse, refusing to let him into the vehicle. He knew he was worried, and it warmed his heart just a bit, but his thirst for violence drowned it out quite a bit. He’d just killed another two people for Sherlock Holmes, and got shot in the process. This week couldn’t be over quickly enough.

He got home and went straight to bed again. They had wanted him to stay at the hospital overnight, but he’d declined. He wanted nothing more than to stay home.

Thursday was over, and tomorrow he’d do nothing else than stay home. At least that’s what he thought until he got a panicked call from work asking him to come to the clinic and help out. John had tried to say no, he really had, but then he thought maybe it would be fine to go to work. It was normal, boring and everything else than running around the streets, jumping into freezing water, being kidnapped, almost snogged up in an alley before being arrested, and being shot. It sounded much more inviting than what it ended up being.

Friday was a mess. He almost fell asleep behind his desk, screaming, sick children were able to get in a few good kicks, making it really hard not to lose it entirely. He had a full day of appointments, almost breaking down in front of the last patient. The only thing keeping him going was the thought of the weekend. Soon. Oh, so close he could almost taste the freedom it would bring. He needed some time to heal. He was broken, and for once in his later life he really wanted a hug. He didn’t care who gave it to him, he just had an urge to cling to someone, letting all the pent-up stress go.

The clock chimed, marking the end of the day, and he grabbed his things, storming out of the place. Ignoring his colleagues, he walked out into the pouring rain, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head, trying his best to hail a cab. Nothing. He was stuck walking back to the flat. He knew he’d be soaked when he got there.

He was right, of course. Dripping wet he made his way up the stairs to the flat, opening the door. He wanted to sob just because of the relieved feeling of finally getting a break. If Sherlock as much as opened his mouth to get him out of the house, John would refuse, no matter how whiny the detective got.

He stripped out of his soaked jacket and shuffled into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He waited patiently for the water to boil. Closing his eyes, he tried his best to keep the empty feeling at bay. He really craved a hug, and he’d probably seek out the first person walking into the flat.

The kettle squealed and John made his tea before dragging his feet over to the couch. He ended up putting the cup down and falling sideways down on the soft cushions. He hissed when his wounded arm got crushed under him, but he couldn’t find the strength to move. The week had drained him, leaving him weak and surprisingly emotional. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on his breathing.

He didn’t even notice when Sherlock walked into the flat. The detective paced around the living room, went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. A groan made John’s eyes fly open. He knew what would happen next.

“John!” Sherlock yelled. John pursed his lips, not moving from his awkward position on the couch. “John, what the hell did you do to my mould?”

John swore under his breath. He was not in the mood for arguments right now. The emotional state would probably make him break before he could utter a single word of defence. He didn’t even flinch when the detective appeared in the opening to the kitchen.

“You know perfectly well that you’re not to touch my experiments. I’ve been working on that for months, and now it’s gone,” Sherlock raged on, gesturing wildly as he spoke. “You could at least answer me when I talk to you.”

John’s eyes blurred before the first tear escaped, rolling slowly down his cheek. His lips were quivering. Arguing had to be the one and only thing he couldn’t handle at the moment. He supressed a whine by pulling in a shaky breath. He almost hoped Sherlock wouldn’t realise. Of course, he did. He was the most observant man on the planet. For a second he just stood there, almost shocked to see John curled up on the couch, crying silently.

“You’re laying on your wound, John,” the detective informed softly. John didn’t reply. He just buried his face into the cushions, trying to hide his red, tearstained face from the other man’s prying eyes. John couldn’t describe the feeling well. He felt so entirely drained after the week, and he just wanted to be left alone for once. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t gone to his room in the first place. It would be a lot more private.

Soft footsteps moved closer to him. The couch dipped a bit as Sherlock sat down beside him. The detective pulled him up and into a caring embrace. John didn’t realise he was hugging him back before he felt the ache in his arm. He clung to the detective, pushing his face into his shoulder. He felt a sensual hand rub his spine carefully. The hand travelled further up and tangled in his hair, pulling lightly. The feeling made him hug Sherlock tighter.

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered into the doctor’s hair. “I overreacted. It’s just mould, anyway. You don’t need to feel guilty.”

“Are you serious, right now?” John huffed and tilted his head to glare at the detective. “I never touched your stupid mould, you git.”

There was silence while Sherlock analysed the new information. A confused frown crossed over his features and he blinked a few times, letting his eyes scan over John’s face.

“Then why are you crying?” he asked, pulling away to look at him. John sighed and let his head lull forwards in defeat.

“I’m exhausted, Sherlock,” he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “This week has been terrible. I almost drowned, I got kidnapped, I got arrested for punching a man who tried to feel me up after you left me at that club, and then I got shot.”

Sherlock pulled him into another hug. John swallowed down the urge to sob again, and leaned into the detective’s chest.

“If it makes it any better, my week wasn’t that good either,” Sherlock muttered. John snorted before he could control himself.

“Oh, really?”

“Well, the thought of losing my best friend isn’t exactly the most inviting thing, now, is it?” Sherlock explained. John felt his eyelids droop and close. He was so incredibly tired, and the warmth of another person against him was literarily heaven. “You almost drowned, you got kidnapped, you got shot. It does make you realise a few things,” Sherlock felt John’s breathing even out, indicating he’d fallen asleep against him. The detective smiled softly down at his companion before pulling him down above him on the couch. John shuffled around for a moment, before settling against Sherlock’s chest, still sleeping. Sherlock let his fingers run thought the shorter man’s hair, before drifting off himself.

It had been an awful week for the both of them. Stress had torn away at them, wounds and bruises gathered all over their bodies, and the fear of losing the other made it all worse.

Thankfully, a lot can be fixed with a warm hug from someone you care about. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!   
I hope you enjoyed. Please leave a comment!   
Have a nice day (or night if you're just reading this while not being able to sleep ;) )


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